The streets are sprouting Tricolours like weeds. A fever dream of flags waving in the October wind, but this isn’t patriotism, it’s panic. A chorus of hollow men in knock-off GAA jackets, hoisting colours they don’t understand, hoping the wind will do the heavy lifting of identity for them.
Let’s get something straight, lads, that flag was never meant for hate. The Green, the White, the Orange, it’s not a threat, it’s a promise. A truce between two old ghosts, Catholic and Protestant, sewn in the hope that the workers of this island, no matter the creed or colour, could one day build something beautiful together. It was raised for unity, not intimidation. It flew for freedom, not fear.
And yet here you are, hammering it into the earth like a warning sign to the migrants, as if Ireland hasn’t always been a country of wanderers and refugees, scraping our way across the world looking for a bit of dignity. Jesus, if a flag scared you that much, what would you have done in Boston in ’45? Or Birmingham in ’70? You’d have starved for lack of mirrors.
You think the flag gives you power, but it’s laughing at you, fluttering away like a ghost that refuses to serve fools. You’re flying the banner of the republic against yourselves, and you don’t even know it.
You’ve made a campaign against your own reflection.
And those of us who know what that flag really means, who know the hunger, the solidarity, the long march toward freedom, we look up at it and still feel a swell in the chest. Because it’s ours. It belongs to every worker, every neighbour, every soul who loves this island enough to fight for its better angels. It’s the banner of Connolly, not cowards. It’s for the dreamers, not the rats.
But now there’s a sadness to it, too. Because we all know how this story ends. The flags will grow dirty, tattered, forgotten. Who’s going to take them down when they’re filthy? Who’s going to climb that pole and treat them with the respect they deserve? You? You’ll be gone, moved on to the next moral panic, the next cheap thrill.
And tell me this, my "patriot":
How many flags will it take to make you feel Irish enough?
Ten? A hundred? One on every lamppost between here and the Liffey? Will another dozen make you a Gael, or just more lost?
Because being Irish isn’t something you hang, it’s something you live. It’s the music, the laughter, the rage for justice. It’s sharing your last fag with a stranger on the bus. It’s a pint and a row and a handshake after. It’s the old stories and the new neighbours.
It’s a flag that flies for all of us, or none at all.
So go on, hang your colours high.
But know this, they don’t scare the migrants, they don’t shame the neighbours, and they sure as hell don’t crown you king.
All they do is remind the rest of us what the Republic was meant to be, a place where no one is foreign, no one is lesser, and no one goes hungry under a sky striped Green, White, and Orange.
And maybe, just maybe, when the wind has had its say, and the flags come down in rags, we’ll raise them again, together this time, in honour, not in fear.
For the living Republic, and all who call her home.
#NoToRasicm #NoToFascism #NoPasaran
Let’s get something straight, lads, that flag was never meant for hate. The Green, the White, the Orange, it’s not a threat, it’s a promise. A truce between two old ghosts, Catholic and Protestant, sewn in the hope that the workers of this island, no matter the creed or colour, could one day build something beautiful together. It was raised for unity, not intimidation. It flew for freedom, not fear.
And yet here you are, hammering it into the earth like a warning sign to the migrants, as if Ireland hasn’t always been a country of wanderers and refugees, scraping our way across the world looking for a bit of dignity. Jesus, if a flag scared you that much, what would you have done in Boston in ’45? Or Birmingham in ’70? You’d have starved for lack of mirrors.
You think the flag gives you power, but it’s laughing at you, fluttering away like a ghost that refuses to serve fools. You’re flying the banner of the republic against yourselves, and you don’t even know it.
You’ve made a campaign against your own reflection.
And those of us who know what that flag really means, who know the hunger, the solidarity, the long march toward freedom, we look up at it and still feel a swell in the chest. Because it’s ours. It belongs to every worker, every neighbour, every soul who loves this island enough to fight for its better angels. It’s the banner of Connolly, not cowards. It’s for the dreamers, not the rats.
But now there’s a sadness to it, too. Because we all know how this story ends. The flags will grow dirty, tattered, forgotten. Who’s going to take them down when they’re filthy? Who’s going to climb that pole and treat them with the respect they deserve? You? You’ll be gone, moved on to the next moral panic, the next cheap thrill.
And tell me this, my "patriot":
How many flags will it take to make you feel Irish enough?
Ten? A hundred? One on every lamppost between here and the Liffey? Will another dozen make you a Gael, or just more lost?
Because being Irish isn’t something you hang, it’s something you live. It’s the music, the laughter, the rage for justice. It’s sharing your last fag with a stranger on the bus. It’s a pint and a row and a handshake after. It’s the old stories and the new neighbours.
It’s a flag that flies for all of us, or none at all.
So go on, hang your colours high.
But know this, they don’t scare the migrants, they don’t shame the neighbours, and they sure as hell don’t crown you king.
All they do is remind the rest of us what the Republic was meant to be, a place where no one is foreign, no one is lesser, and no one goes hungry under a sky striped Green, White, and Orange.
And maybe, just maybe, when the wind has had its say, and the flags come down in rags, we’ll raise them again, together this time, in honour, not in fear.
For the living Republic, and all who call her home.
#NoToRasicm #NoToFascism #NoPasaran
⏩Pádraig Drummond is an anti-racism activist.
Poetic but ignores the elephant in the room.
ReplyDeleteI think he identifies the elephant in the room quite well - racist hatred. He sees that elephant wrapping itself in green, white and orange and then going on a hate trample.
DeleteI don't think the Irish people are racist-we can interrogate the issue without the pejorative. But I wasn't clear, what I should have said was .." Does the Republic have a right to control it's borders?" That's the elephant. Everyone seems to be caught up in either being afraid to raise concerns lest being labelled the racist or if they do raise concerns then they're vilified. It's not unique to Ireland.
ReplyDeleteRegardless, there's a very nice cadence to this piece.
This is where the conflict between sovereign governments and pooled sovereignty comes into effect. Should a government control its borders any more than it should control its climate policy? The idea of autarky and unfettered control is obsolete. That said a national government has to plan for the society it governs and that is very difficult if it cannot calculate what population it has to provide for.
DeleteIreland without immigrants would be a disaster - people would be dying on the streets without medical assistance. The racists could only offer the prayers from their priests. Immigration is always a problem because it places societies under strain. People should be free to oppose any government policy. It is when they hate the by-products of government policy - immigrants - that I have a serious difficulty.